


Like A Moth To A Flame

by moo_shu



Series: Moth To A Flame [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, For the most part, He's figuring things out don't worry about it, Merlin lights himself on fire, Talking things through like responsible adults, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27256270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moo_shu/pseuds/moo_shu
Summary: Nearly eight months into their search for Morgana, Arthur discovers that Merlin is a sorcerer.
Series: Moth To A Flame [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990852
Comments: 7
Kudos: 149





	Like A Moth To A Flame

Nearly eight months into their search for Morgana, Arthur discovers that Merlin is a sorcerer. 

They’re out on one of their many expeditions, far from the castle and deep within the woods. A steady drizzle had plagued them all morning and afternoon, and hadn’t let up even when they’d finally called it quits for the day. 

After a soggy meal and a miserable cleanup, Arthur assigns watch for the night and then retreats into his tent to shiver himself to sleep until it’s his turn for guard duty. Merlin stumbles in behind him, teeth chattering, and they arrange themselves as well as they can on the damp earth as they settle down for the night.

It’s common for them to share a tent like this when they’re out on long quests, and Arthur finds himself extra grateful for the shared body heat as the night goes on and their tent starts to warm up. It’s certainly warmer than if he’d been alone, and Merlin’s steady breathing goes a long way in relaxing his nerves.

He drifts off to sleep easily, and wakes in the early morning when Sir Pells flips his tent flap open and calls out to him. “M’up,” he whispers back, and watches sleepily as the knight’s shadow retreats back towards his own tent.

Yawning, Arthur sits up and stretches. Reaching over, he grabs at his thick leather jacket. It offered less protection than his full armor but was a lot lighter, and helped him blend in - which is exactly what they needed on this miserable mission.

Unfortunately the leather had been soaked through by yesterday’s rain, and probably hadn’t dried out fully overnight. It would be cold and heavy, and Arthur resigns himself to another day of soggy torture.

However when he grabs it, he finds that not only is the leather completely dry, but the metal clasps are strangely warm. Which is impossible – there’s no way _metal_ had spontaneously decided to warm up after being out in the cool air all night. But it is. Both pieces are warm and dry, and he has no idea _how._

Suddenly, Arthur becomes very aware that his tent is also incredibly warm – not uncomfortable, but definitely warmer than it should be on a cool, misty, morning. A bit unsettled, he gropes at his blankets and finds that they too feel strangely heated and dry. 

Slightly panicked, he jerks around, “Merl–” he starts, but cuts off abruptly when he lays eyes on his manservant. 

He’d given Merlin a very nice bed roll and blanket not long after he’d started working for him. They went on enough outings together, and he had enough spares laying around to justify gifting him with one he no longer used as a thanks for his service.

Like Arthur, Merlin had curled himself tight into his bedroll last night, not wanting any hint of cold seeping its way into his cocoon of heat. Now though, Merlin is relaxed. His blanket has been kicked haphazardly across his legs, leaving his head and torso exposed to the night. 

That’s not what stops Arthur though. No, what stops him is the gentle red glow pulsing in time with Merlin’s breathing. Although he can’t see below Merlin’s shirt, the top part of his chest all the way up his throat appears like it’s covered in lava. Or more accurately, like lava is swirling beneath the surface of his skin.

Arthur must let out some sort of noise, because after a moment of shocked staring Merlin’s nose scrunches up and he lets out a huge yawn. “A’thur?” He mumbles, “Izit morning?”

The fiery glow spotting his upper chest and neck dims, but Arthur still catches a hint of reflective, golden light in Merlin’s eyes as he blinks awake. _Magic._

Somehow, he’s able to snap himself out of shock and stutter out something in response, before he flees the tent in a panic.

\--- 

The rest of their expedition goes exactly like all the others have – no Morgana, no leads, and a shameful march back to Camelot. Like always, Uther meets them at the gate with a hopeful gleam in his eyes, and like always, Arthur watches as the news of their failure seems to age his father before his very eyes.

“Right,” Merlin says from his side as they watch Uther disappear back towards the castle, “I’m going to check on Gaius first, and then I’ll be up with your dinner.” With that, he hands the reins of his horse off to a waiting stable boy, and gives Arthur a little wave as he follows the path around to Gaius’s chambers.

Arthur watches Merlin until he can no longer see him, before passing his own reins off and making his way back to the castle. He...hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t done anything, said anything to anyone, or even confronted Merlin about it, and he honestly doesn’t know what to do.

On one hand, Arthur is _furious_ with him. They’ve known each other for years now – _years!_ How long had Merlin been practicing magic behind his back? How long had Arthur been left in the dark, ignorant of his supposed friend’s true nature? How long had Merlin been playing him as a fool?

 _No, that’s not quite right,_ Arthur thinks to himself. He doesn’t think Merlin’s been stringing him along like a fool. Not really. Despite the staggering revelation, Arthur is one hundred percent certain that his manservant is no magical mastermind. 

The idiot didn’t seem to have any control over his magic, for one - he’d been casting spells in his sleep! Anyone with control that piss-poor over their magic _couldn’t_ be using it for some kind of master plan. It would be an unreliable weapon, and master plans couldn’t depend on unreliable weapons. And Merlin might be an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid - he’d given enough solid, reliable input into Arthur’s battle strategies over the years that Arthur was certain he would never build a plan around something unreliable. 

And anyways, if Merlin had been scheming against him he’d know about it by now. The fool had been with him for literal years - if he’d wanted Arthur dead (or even Uther...but no, he couldn’t think about his father right now), then all he’d have to do is stand aside and let it happen. Instead, Merlin had continuously warned him of different threats over the years - both magical and non magical.

So no, Arthur was pretty certain that Merlin didn’t have it out for him. But he also didn’t know _what_ the damn fool was doing here in Camelot. Did he simply think it funny to practice magic directly under the king's nose? Did he have some sort of death-wish?

Arthur just didn’t know. But he couldn’t think of any real, actual reason a sorcerer would decide to live in Camelot either. 

\---

Arthur continues to not do anything about it. Days pass, then weeks, then months, and he still continues to do nothing.

Nothing - nothing _rash,_ anyways. He’d been short with Merlin for those first few days post-return, but Merlin had been his usual infuriating self and it hadn’t taken long for Arthur to forget why he’d been short with him in the first place.

Well, not forget really, but it was just so much effort to stay mad at someone when they didn’t even know you were mad at them in the first place. 

_Well._ Merlin obviously knew _something_ was up when Arthur had started snapping at him. He’d been oddly respectful of his moods though, and it takes Arthur a bit to realize his manservant is attempting to be tactful.

“We’ll find her,” Merlin says quietly, a warm hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder. They’re chasing down another lead on Morgana, this time somewhere close to the southwest border. According to their scouts, a woman fitting her description had been spotted traveling frantically across the countryside on horseback, alone and in poor condition. They’ve had no luck though, and haven’t even been able to find a single hoofprint in the mud.

And fuck. _Fuck,_ that wasn’t something an evil sorcerer would say. That’s something a friend would say, to comfort their friend who was searching for the woman he’d grown up with as a sister. 

Merlin _couldn’t_ be evil. He couldn’t be - it was impossible. And yet, this morning Arthur had once again woken up to a comfortably warm tent, and a manservant with lava-red skin. What was he supposed to think?

Because at the end of the day, what did he really know about magic? Nothing substantial.

He knew that magical creatures tended to attack, viciously and on sight (minus the unicorn, which was a whole different jar of worms), but, if he thinks about it, what wild animal _didn’t_ do that? Arthur wouldn’t expect a wolf to sit tamely if he came across it in the forest, so why should he expect a wild magical creature to?

And the red capes of Camelot’s knights were very distinctive. If _he_ was a sorcerer that came across a knight from a kingdom that had a reputation for executing anyone accused of magic, Arthur doesn’t think he’d be very friendly either. He would also not hold very high opinions about said kingdom, and probably wouldn’t hesitate to retaliate if given the chance. It’s an eye opening thought, and not a very pleasant one. 

As the weeks pass and he thinks things through, his anger and hurt towards Merlin and his stupid, idiodic lies slowly morphs into a confusing mix of curious frustration.

What was Merlin doing in Camelot? How had he become involved in magic and sorcery? Did the flame-skin not hurt him? Was he even aware he was casting spells in his sleep? For that matter, Arthur had always thought you needed to actually say a spell to cast it, so how was Merlin even casting spells in his sleep? Arthur’s questions just keep piling up, but he can’t seem to work up the courage to confront Merlin about it. 

And wasn’t that ironic! He’d been so hurt that morning in the tent when he’d realized what he was seeing. Merlin had lied to him, and continued to lie to him, and seemingly had no plans to ever say anything about his true nature to Arthur...and here Arthur was, unable to say anything either. 

He would laugh, if the situation wasn’t so dire. Technically, Merlin’s life was on the line here. And now that Arthur knows what to watch for, he can’t believe he hadn’t realized his manservant had magic before.

He starts to notice little things...like the fact that his baths are always the perfect temperature, no matter how late he is after ordering water sent up. Or that his sword is always perfectly sharp, even though he never sees Merlin sharpening it. There are other things too, that are less easily explained away. 

“Are you daft?!” He shouts, dropping the dull practice sword and rushing to Merlin’s side. Knowing the idiot had magic and could cast spells at their enemies during a battle eased his discomfort at taking his manservant into said battles, but didn’t erase it entirely. Merlin was still a clumsy idiot, after all, and still just as likely as any untrained peasant to die by a sword in combat. 

His evidence? The purple bruise currently blooming on his jaw. Merlin hadn’t reacted in time to his swing, and Arthur had ended up clipping him in the face. 

“Ow,” Merlin says, a bit dazed. He brings his hand up to rub the sore spot on his face, but Arthur bats it away and holds his jaw steady to examine the injury for himself. Guilt worms through his stomach, but lessens somewhat as he gets a closer look. He’s bruised, yes, but Arthur had only clipped him, and had pulled his punch as best he could as soon as he realized Merlin wasn’t going to block him.

“Wait. You hit me!” Merlin yells, dropping his sword (like the idiot he was - who voluntarily disarmed themselves directly after being hit?) and glaring daggers at him. 

Well, there went the last of Arthur’s guilt. If he was feeling well enough to snap back, then he hadn’t been hit _that_ hard. He opens his mouth to tell him to quit acting like a girl and for god’s sake, pick up your damn weapon, when a flash of gold sparks across Merlin’s eyes. 

The breeze picks up around them, carrying with it the scent of something wild. It reminds Arthur of a terrible storm that had ravaged Camelot when he was a child. Dark clouds had billowed threateningly over the city all morning, and the rumble of thunder had started even before the rain.

The hunting hounds had been in a panic, and the horses had whinnied nervously in their stables. He remembers the peasants nervously locking their doors, and how his father had spent most of the day in hushed conversation with Gaius. The city had been eerily quiet and empty, and Arthur had been confined indoors with a guard until the storm had started, at which point he was shoved in his room and told to stay put. 

Rain had poured from the sky in buckets, and the wind howled so loudly he’d almost started to believe the gossip that his father had actually trapped a dragon under the castle, and it was screaming to escape. The endless lightning hadn’t helped. There was so much of it, and to his young mind, it almost seemed like streams of fire burning through the sky.

Something about the gentle breeze that picks up around them now reminds him vividly of that storm, and it unsettles him enough that he loses track of what he was saying.

“Be more careful next time, and maybe you won’t get hit.” He manages to get out gruffly, dropping Merlin’s face and turning back towards the castle. Training was over for today.

\---

Things come to a head in the last few months of that year. They are once again out on an expedition to find Morgana, this time to the northern borders of the kingdom. Autumn's chill has long since deepened into a shivering winter-cool, and a light snowfall has dusted the lands throughout their journey. 

Arthur’s bones ache with the cold and although there are no complaints from his knights, he can sense their discomfort a mile away. On the other hand, his idiot manservant doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. Arthur would strangle him for being so obvious, except for the fact that he's almost certain Merlin has no idea what he's doing.

Like the bed roll, he’d given Merlin a very nice set of winter travel clothes sometime in the first year he’d been in Camelot – a thick red jacket, a rather nice pair of long pants, and a heavy black cloak. While he’s wearing both the pants and jacket, he’d shoved the cloak in his pack earlier on. None of the knights have said anything, but there isn’t a single one who hasn’t given the fool an odd look.

Said fool continues appearing to not feel the cold at all throughout their entire journey, despite the fact that both him and his knights are dressed in more layers _and_ all have chattering teeth. It’s _infuriating,_ especially when they finally stop for the night and he finds himself sat pressed up against Merlin around the fire.

Even through his clothes Merlin is warm to the touch, and Arthur has no doubt that if he peeled off the jacket his skin would appear like a lava-field, just as it had before.

Or maybe it wouldn’t, and maybe Merlin actually knew exactly what he was doing. After all, what did Arthur really know about magic?

 _Nothing his father hadn’t told him,_ he thinks to himself bitterly, and wonders for the thousandth time why Uther seems to hate magic so much. 

He knows from past experiences that asking his father straight out why he held such a grudge only ended in shouting matches and long lectures on the evils of sorcery. That didn’t stop him from wondering though, especially as he pressed discreetly against Merlin’s side, soaking in the (rather glorious) magical heat.

Arthur takes first watch that night. It’s uneventful, disgustingly cold, and he’s equal parts grateful and annoyed when he slides into his tent and finds it almost swelteringly hot. 

Just like last time, Merlin is sprawled out across his bedroll. The visible parts of his chest and neck pulse a swirling red-orange, and his blanket has been kicked off and tangled with his feet. 

Curious despite himself, Arthur makes a snap decision. This had gone on long enough. It was time to confront Merlin, and it was time to decide what he was going to do. 

Slowly inching forwards Arthur drops to kneel beside Merlin’s head, extending his arm and brushing his fingers across his neck. Warmth tingles up through his hand, and he lets out an involuntary gasp when it spreads up his arm and across his own chest.

“Mmm…” Merlin mumbles, twisting a bit in his sleep. The magic-fire under his skin flares gold, before dimming suddenly to almost nothing. “...Arthur?”

He must be wearing a pretty serious expression, because Merlin’s gaze sharpens pretty quickly as he sits up. Arthur’s hand slides, and he finds himself gripping his manservants shoulder tightly.

“Arthur, what-”

While dimmer, his skin was still glowing with fire. Gold dances through Merlin’s eyes, reminding Arthur sickeningly of the hot flames of a pyre against the blue of the sky. 

Shit. _Shit._ This was a bad idea. What was he even thinking? He should’ve just left it alone, and gone on pretending he didn’t know anything about this. But it’s too late now, Merlin is staring blankly down at his hands, which are alight with a beautiful, swirling flame pattern.

Suddenly, Merlin’s body tenses, and within the span of one breath all the light around them blacks out. Or, well, that’s how it seems. The fire underneath his skin goes out, taking all the light with it. Arthur’s eyes take a minute to adjust.

Merlin remains stiff as a board underneath his hand, and Arthur has no idea what to say. He had some sort of vague concept of what he’d say when he’d entered the tent (something along the lines of ‘are you stupid’ or ‘be more careful’), but all his words have left him. It isn’t until a chill starts seeping into his hand that he realizes _he’s_ the one that needs to take the initiative here - Merlin clearly had no plans to do anything except stare blindly at him like the idiot he was. 

Taking a fortifying breath, Arthur opens his mouth and wills words to come out. In retrospect, it wasn’t the best idea, because what comes out is, “So you really are just a worthless sorcerer then. You can’t even keep a spell active while you’re awake.”

And he deeply regrets saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth, because the words ‘worthless sorcerer’ can be taken very, _very_ wrongly. Heat flares to life under Merlin’s skin again, red and angry.

“I mean-” he tries to correct, and this is _not_ how he pictured this going at all, “Not a good one. Er, a practiced one. Otherwise I doubt you’d be setting yourself on fire every night, or acting like the cold doesn’t bother you.”

Several complex expressions cycle through Merlin's face. “Setting myself…?”

“Yes fire,” Arthur interjects, jumping on the chance to steer their conversation away from his tactless comment. He’d already worked through all that - it was impossible for Merlin to be an evil mastermind, even with sorcery. Therefore, not all sorcerers could be evil. That didn’t mean he was suddenly going to start letting his guard down around other sorcerers or magical things though...just that he trusted Merlin, and would be bombarding him with questions as soon as they got over this little hurdle.

“What in the bloody hell is going on.” Merlin mumbles under his breath. Arthur is relieved to note that the brief chill has subsided though, and that the muscles underneath his hand relax a few degrees. It was a start.

“What’s going on,” Arthur starts, “Is that you’ve somehow gotten a bit too lax in controlling...whatever this is.” He punctuates his words with a wave of his hand, eyeing the sluggish red-orange of Merlin’s skin critically. 

A spark of gold flashes through Merlin’s eyes, and Arthur catches the faintest whiff of a summer storm. “I’m not- I-”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” Arthur cuts him off. “I just. I- _Why?”_

It wasn’t what he’d intended on saying, and it wasn’t really a clear question either. _Why did you get involved with sorcery? Why did you lie to me? Why are you here?_

Merlin is silent for a long time. So long, in fact, that Arthur starts to think he might not reply at all. He does though, and it only adds more questions to the ever growing pile. 

“I don’t know.”

\---

The expedition, like all others before it, proves fruitless. 

On top of that, there is an undercurrent of tension between him and Merlin for the rest of the trip. It’s to be expected, honestly, but it just adds to Arthur’s shitty mood.

_‘I don’t know.’_

What the hell kind of answer was that? What didn’t he know? How he’d gotten involved with magic? Why he was in Camelot? It boils Arthur’s blood to think about, and he spends the entirety of their slow march back to the castle fuming.

What makes it worse though, is that Merlin _also_ seems to be pissy over it. He sulks in his saddle all day, glaring at everything and everyone with the moody pout of a child. There is also no more fire-skin at night, and Merlin makes a point to toss his cloak over his shoulders each morning as they set out. 

And this is the opposite of what Arthur wanted. He wanted to- to _understand._ Not cause a rift between them, and cause Merlin to _stop_ using magic. That wouldn’t help either of them, and anyways, how was Arthur supposed to learn anything about magic if the only sorcerer he trusted wouldn’t talk to him? 

Letting out a frustrated huff, Arthur starts to pace in front of his fireplace. The setting sun cast long shadows over his rooms, and the flickering of the fire only served to remind him of the red-orange-gold of Merlin’s skin.

 _Enough of this,_ he thinks to himself. He was prince of Camelot - heir to the throne of the greatest kingdom in Albion. Someone of his status didn’t sulk around his room, thinking himself in circles. Someone of his status marched directly to his manservants quarters, and _demanded_ answers.

Yes, that’s what he would do. This farce had gone on long enough. Mind made up, Arthur turns and marches towards his door, only to have it open and slam directly into his face.

“Bloody _ow!”_ He cries, gripping his nose and blinking back tears of pain.

“Oh shit,” he hears, and _of course._ It figures the moment he made up his mind to go hunt Merlin down, Merlin would show up and slam a door in his face.

“Just the man I was looking for.” He bites out, a little sharper than intended. His nose smarts, but there doesn’t seem to be any blood. Probably he hasn’t been concussed then.

“Er,” Merlin starts, a cross between serious and dumb plastered over his face, “Yes, right. I was looking for you as well.”

“Well, you certainly found me.” Arthur snips, but the fight leaves him. He wanted - no, _needed_ answers, and picking a fight with Merlin now would guarantee he didn’t get them. Sighing, Arthur gestures towards the table by the fire. “We need to have a talk.”

Something foreign flashes across Merlin’s face, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize that it’s fear. 

Which is just...wrong. Despite his utter uselessness, Merlin was one of the bravest people he knew. Of course, Arthur now knew that his fearlessness at jumping into a battle unarmed had something to do with the fact that, well, he _wasn’t_ unarmed, instead of any inherent lack of self-preservation. But the fact still remained that fear wasn’t something he was used to seeing on Merlin’s face.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he gestures again at the table before walking over to take a seat. Merlin dithers by the doorway for a brief moment, before steel hardens his features and he follows. 

He takes the seat across from Arthur purposefully, leaning forward with his palms on the rough wood. “So,” he starts, “Um. Where do you want to start.” 

And it’s so like _Merlin_ -the-mannerless-manservant to phrase such a serious topic as a statement instead of a question that he can’t help but laugh. Arthur is exhausted. He’s been exhausted since yesterday in the tent - exhausted since he’d found out, really, and he’s tired of it. He’s tired of worrying over all these useless thoughts and questions, none of which he has any solid answers too. But, the time for worrying was over...here Merlin was, sitting in front of him, open and willing to _finally_ clear the air.

Letting out a deep sigh, Arthur scrubs a hand through his hair. “I have a lot of questions, Merlin.” He starts, channeling his inner courtly regallity to keep his voice steady. “So many questions. But, the most important one is still the same as before. Why did you become involved with magic? How did it tempt you in?”

A dozen complex expressions filter across Merlin’s face and he opens and closes his mouth a couple times, although nothing comes out. 

Arthur just waits it out though. He’d been impatient before, and it had led to no answers. Merlin was here - had actually sought him out with the intentions of giving him answers - so Arthur would give him the time to speak. It doesn’t seem like it would be a hard question to answer, but then again, Arthur is no sorcerer. Maybe the descent into magic is more complex than what he’d initially thought?

Finally, something solidifies in Merlin’s eyes, and he shifts around to sit up straighter. “Well,” he begins, “Er, I don’t know?”

Suddenly, Arthur is no longer feeling the same cool level-headedness he’d started this conversation with. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?” He grits out, doing his best to keep his hands at his sides.

“I– what? No, no, I really don’t know.” His manservant stutters out. “I mean, I was casting magic before I could even walk. I don’t suppose _you_ remember the complex thoughts and motivations you had at three days old, yeah?”

It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, his annoyance only grows, and his anger grows with it. “Merlin,” he snaps out harshly, “I thought you’d come here to be honest with me. A baby can’t perform magic - a baby can’t speak spells. Hell, babies can’t even feed themselves! How do you expect me to believe some nonsense about you being, what, _born_ with the ability to cast spells willy-nilly, with no outside influence and no, I don’t know, magic master? Do you take me for a fool?”

And god, that hurt. Because, maybe he was a fool. He’d thought...well, he’d thought that, despite everything, Merlin wasn’t some conniving sorcerer. But maybe he was. His father had always said never to trust those with magic, as their thoughts and motivations had been twisted into something dark and incomprehensible, but Merlin hadn’t seemed like that. He’d seemed genuine. Not crazy.

But there he sat across from Arthur, trying to spin some tale that magic had been some innate talent of his, instead of something he’d obviously had to actively seek out and learn. Who would ever believe something like that?

Merlin obviously thought _he_ would, and looked to be getting angry that he hadn’t. Arthur can see the red-orange-gold blush of fire creeping up his neck, and the flashes of bright, sparking gold in his eyes. That same hair-raising primal sense that warned of an approaching storm shivered down Arthur’s spine.

“Well,” Merlin snips shortly, in a voice that is rougher than usual. “Then I don’t know what to tell you, if you don’t want to believe the truth. I’ve never had to learn magic. It’s always been a part of me. I’ve always had it, from the moment I was born. I–”

The swirling lava-pattern has made its way up Merlin’s neck and about half of his face by this point, which is the highest Arthur’s ever seen it go. It’s peeking out from the ends of his shirtsleeves as well, flickering along his hands and fingers like flaming snake tongues. 

A low, animalistic snarl rumbles up from somewhere deep within Merlin’s chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut suddenly, taking purposefully slow breaths. After a few moments of this, the fire-glow starts to recede, until it is back below his chin and no longer sparking across his hands.

The thunderous look remains behind though, and when Merlin reopens his eyes, they shine a bright wolf-gold. 

And...ok. Ok, so maybe he needed to reassess things. Who was it that told Arthur sorcerers actually had to learn their spells? His father. And, what did Uther know about magic? Enough to restrain those with magic for long enough periods of time to execute them...Which had always thrown Arthur for a loop, if he was being honest. How could a sorcerer that could throw a man across a room with a single word and light a fire with their mind _not_ have the ability to escape a prison cell? 

But, that’s a whole separate conversation. Uther had never been forthcoming about anything magical throughout Arthur’s entire life. Therefore, it was safe to assume he didn’t have all the facts - maybe sorcerers truly were born instead of made? Who would know? Not Arthur, and his frustrating lack of knowledge, that’s for sure. 

“Say I believe you,” Arthur picks up cautiously. “Say I believe that sorcerers are simply born, instead of consciously making the decision to study it. What would be the purpose of hiding that information? Of making it seem like anyone could become enthralled and practice sorcery?”

Because that would change everything. At the end of the day, Arthur could not believe that someone could be born innately evil. It just, it just wasn’t possible. People chose to commit atrocities - no one was born with a crime imprinted on their soul. If people truly were born with their magic, well, Camelot would have a lot to answer for. 

The fight seems to leave Merlin at his words. His shoulders slump, and he brings a hand up to rub at his temple. “Well, er,” he starts, “it’s not exactly...Well, anyone _can_ learn magic, I suppose.” His hand drops, and the usual blue of his eyes starts to seep back in around the gold. “I’m just. An outlier, I guess. This–” he continues, waving his arms in a gesture that Arthur takes to mean _this weird fire-skin,_ “–Isn’t exactly normal. I’ve never met another magic user who hasn’t had to learn their spells, either. Things just, er, happen for me. I’ve never needed a spell to use my magic.” 

And of course. Of _course_ his idiot manservant would be an outlier among sorcerers. Because out of all the possible outcomes, Merlin being a weirdo among sorcerers was still much more plausible than him being a twisted mastermind. Honestly, that was something Arthur didn’t have any issue believing. It wasn’t entirely reassuring though. If there was one, there was usually more - out of all the sorcerers Uther had condemned, how many had learned magic, and how many had been born with it?

The thought is uncomfortable, and not something he could afford to get lost in at the moment. “Alright.” Arthur continues eventually, “So, I’m guessing you don’t know why you keep lighting yourself on fire then. It’s clearly not a normal spell, and it’s also obvious that you don’t have any control over it.” 

“I– what?” Merlin stutters out, an expression of shock on his face. “You believe me?”

There is something fragile in his voice, something small and aching that couldn't be faked. Any lingering doubts Arthur might have had about the authenticity of his manservants claim disappears. “Are you lying to me?”

“No!”

“Then I believe you.” He says with finality. 

That fragile look deepens, and Arthur can feel his own cheeks start to heat from the intensity of Merlin’s raw emotions. Clearing his throat roughly, he pushes aside all his own tumbling thoughts to refocus on the task at hand. “...So, the fire-skin?”

The rawness dancing behind Merlin’s eyes retreats, still visible, but just out of sight. A worried frown replaces it, as his manservant leans backwards in his chair stiffly. “That’s new. The other day in the tent was the first time it happened. I really have no clue why, or what caused it.” 

By the gods, _how_ was Merlin even still alive?

“Merlin, you’ve been setting yourself on fire for months now.” Probably even longer than that too - Arthur had only noticed that rainy day back in mid-spring when they’d shared a tent. It’s entirely possible the lava-skin had been going on for days, weeks, or even months before that. 

“Ha, no way,” Merlin smirks, “I definitely would’ve noticed if this had been happening for months.” 

There was no way that Arthur would - or even could! - entertain the thought of Merlin as an evil mastermind now, ever again. Not with the knowledge that he’d been _lighting himself on fire_ for actual _months_ without noticing. “Do you remember that expedition we took mid-spring? When it rained every day except the last?”

“Um...yes?” Merlin replies cautiously, after thinking about it for a few moments, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You lit yourself on fire overnight. I woke up for the morning watch, and our tent was completely dry, heated, and glowing.”

“I–no–”

Incredulous, Arthur continues. “It wasn’t as noticeable during the summer months, but it became painfully obvious as soon as the weather started to cool. You wear your winter clothes, but not the winter cloak. Hell, you roll your sleeves up when we’re out on patrols and the wind is biting cold!”

Merlin just continues to sit across from him with the dumbest, most shell-shocked expression on his face. “I–but I don’t…”

“Merlin,” he says solemnly, utterly convinced now that the man across from him has been blessed by the gods with some of the best luck mankind has ever known, “Have you truely, honestly, never realized that you put off heat like a bonfire?” 

“I do not!” He exclaims, bright color flaring up his neck again. 

The air warms noticeably around the two of them, and Arthur simply raises his eyebrow and hums in amazement. “You say you’ve had magic your whole life. How in the world did you keep yourself hidden for so long, while being such a spectacularly terrible liar?”

An intense look of concentration takes over his face. A moment later, Arthur’s chambers chill noticeably as the bright glow of heat retreats from Merlin’s skin in full. Abruptly, he jolts up from the chair, almost knocking it over in his haste. “I, um, have to go.” And sure enough, Merlin rounds the table and nearly sprints to the door. “Sorry! More questions later! I’ll answer anything! Bye!”

The door slams shut behind him, and Arthur is left alone. He has more answers than before, but nearly triple the amount of questions. Sighing, he rubs at the ache trying to form behind his temples. His life had just gotten way more complicated, and it seemed like he had a lot of new things to think about regarding the laws of Camelot. 

But, at the very least, after today, he could be sure that Merlin was still the same old idiot he’d always known.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this on and off for awhile now. Honestly I've got another 6,000 words already written exploring like another dozen plot points, but none of that is super polished yet, and eh, this is a decent enough stopping point for now. I do plan to write more, but no promises on when any updates will be.


End file.
